SPOTLIGHT ON B.M. MITCHELL
Ellowrites is happy to feature the work of B.M. Mitchell. Follow B.M. @promptedink and on his other socials and engage! Check out his bio, links, and selected works below.
B.M. Mitchell is a writer, anglophile, nostalgia and tech geek with an emphasis on HTML and the open web. He usually specializes in science-fiction and humor, but loves to experiment with other genres through flash fiction, which you can view on his blog, Prompted Ink. B.M. Mitchell graduated with a BA in English from Eastern Connecticut State University in 2014 and currently lives in Groton, Connecticut. (...and yes, M. is actually my middle initial.)
Check B.M. out on these other sites:
Personal Blog and Flash Fiction Repository
Selected Works--Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike 4.0 License (BY-SA)
Bear Bear (The proper spacing can be found here.)
Vast acres filled with trees,
Small dirt pathways,
A semblance of community
Through the woodland birds,
And the microcosm
That gave the modern-day Rodger Williams
A run for his money.
There's something in the distance.
A ferocious growl,
Small saw-blades for fingers.
There's that inclination to run,
But then there would be
Other people to deal with.
Yet other animals have mouths to feed,
And there's no heaven
In the game of survival.
The something becomes a behemoth.
Arms extended and claws sharpened,
They swiftly encircle
Rush of adrenalin.
The blades never sink in,
Nor did the growling hunger
Consume the feeble demeanor.
Beyond the black olive marbles,
There was a warmth
Running through the fingers.
A silk coat.
The sun seeps through the leaves,
Bathing the fierce façade.
The prey looks at the predator
How Many Times
The same guy kept showing up at the cafe, armed with complaints. It never stopped; everything was a target for scrutiny.
Yet I was stuck with him again. Good old Turner. Man of his word, if that word was in his favor that is. He was also politically passionate, an armchair pundit more or less.
“So can’t wait for these elections to be over,” He said. “Time to get rid of these clowns and get a real politician.”
He was on a non-stop tirade about some convention of politicians that ticked him off. It all had to do with the ties, always with the ties.
“A true politician never wears a snap-on,” Was his favorite lesson. “To tie a tie is true dedication to this country.”
The fact that he could pinpoint the type of tie a politician was wearing from a television screen would be surprising to most. But I was the only one who knew his TV-watching habits. Always in HD. Always in widescreen. Always on a channel I never heard of.
How many times?
His complaints about everything else were exactly the same. He darted the guys from work and school that were different from him from neckwear to personality.
“So you remember Seamus from Marketing,” He said. “That lazy slob never did work on those group projects.”-He then put on a funny voice.-“I can’t do that. Ma won’t let me.”
How many times?
And if he wasn’t complaining politics or putting a bad name on everyone else, he was working on one thing.
“Look, Ian,” He told me, taking out his tattered notebook. “I’ve got some good stuff going on in Act 3.”
This was the only time he beamed, telling tales of the characters partying in some pavilion, or how ridiculous they all were on paper.
“So once Act 1 gets finished then we can finally start that journey to Hollywood,” He said. “I’m still waiting, Ian.”
How many times?
That was a question that I’ve asked for years when it came to Turner. The grating finally broke as I snatched that notebook and strolled off back to the house. He never ran after me and I haven’t seen him since then.
How many times did it take for me to realize? Why did I give myself up in the first place?
Laurie watched the 1 o’clock train pull into the station with little fascination. She had gotten used to waiting for trains since her new job required quite a bit of train hopping. All across New England, and sometimes New York City, she would wander the train stations and the streets of many cities to sell her wares; packed into a backpack and suitcase. Some days would bring fruitful profits from antique seekers while others brought the speculators embracing the corporate cloth.
Regardless of the uncertain gains and losses, she held her head high; being one of the few traveling vendors left.
Passengers began to exit the train and scurry to the nearby taxis or into the station itself. Laurie prepared her stall. She hoped that today would be a good business day and knowing many of the locals was a benefit.
Unfortunately, business that day was the same as any other; very few antiques were sold. She closed shop and proceeded to a nearby hotel overlooking the nearby river. She stared at the light on her bedroom ceiling, contemplating life.
Regardless of the lack of profits, her job allowed her to be free from her past. Obsessive boyfriends, they will keep running. Boring neighborhoods will never be a twinkle in her eye. The countless hassle and bills caused by small parking lots, paid for and left behind.
No need for hot-tubs or high-definition televisions, Laurie embraced the simple life of the salesperson.
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